


One's Perception of a Two-Sided Story

by inactive_account



Category: Vast Error
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Character Study, Daydreaming, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda, M/M, Murrit Turkin (Mentioned) - Freeform, Quadrant Confusion, might write murrit's side? idk., specifically dismas, turns out i rlly like writing these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inactive_account/pseuds/inactive_account
Summary: It's sunrise, and Dismas has some time to think things over.
Relationships: Dismas Mersiv/Murrit Turkin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	One's Perception of a Two-Sided Story

Dulled sunlight is streaming through your closed curtains and shutter shades. You’re lazing back on the ground, reclined against a particularly cozy pile of blankets because it isn’t quite around the time you’d be settling down in the ‘coon. On any other day, you’d be down in the mines, working your ass off to sweat, tears, and eventually blood to obtain the toxic ores your “lusus” feeds on. And speaking of the batshit fucker, you can hear him crying out in the distance, making a fuss because he didn’t get his dinner at dawn. The fucker will eat when you feel like going down into the mines. Or, when he feels like barging into your quaint hive and dragging you out to feed him. He doesn’t matter right now however, as you’ve made clear by your current disposition. 

You’re resting today. Nursing another set of scars freshly received from last morning’s skuffle. Your name is Dismas Mersiv and you are currently brooding over one of the only things you can brood of in this particular time and setting. Your kismesis. You think about him a lot, too much, not enough to figure him out, and just enough for you to get ruddy in the cheeks when it's brought up. Your kismesis is a real one-of-a-kind, you’d put it. In your language, that means  _ “there is practically nothing he can’t do to make me not exceedingly pitch for him and it fucks me up in the morning.” _ You mean it, you do, he’s under your skin like a poison you can’t heal, and you’re certain it’s not only you who feels the same way (not exactly the same, because with you, it’s special. he’s special, he’s bonded black to you.). You’ve known Murrit a long time, longer than any of them, and no matter how much he says he’s changed or even tries, nothing about his mannerisms have changed. Evolved, maybe, but he’s still finding a way to twist his words, twist you up, make a fool of you. He says something that isn’t synced with a meaning and expects you to get it, then gets irritated when you don’t, and proceeds to walk you through it like a lusus you never had. No- he doesn’t get irritated, exasperated maybe, but never irritated. Nevertheless, you don’t need a real lusus, you’ve done just fine without one. Your plight against this Skulltitan that has taken you in taught you enough.

Murrit never seems to get that. Or maybe he does, and uses it against you like the good kismesis he is. Murrit is a good kismesis. A… Really. Good kismesis. 

So good it confuses you when you think too hard about it, just like so.

The walls of your hive shaking and the drop of a sandstone pebble against your forehead jolts you from your reflective reverie, and you take note of the resonating sound of your lusus’ cry from across the canyon, closer now. You scrawl it somewhere in your think pan and store it away for later. You have some time. So you drift through your memories, back when you and Murrit were together in flesh and soul. Back when he was proud to be a crook, a leader, someone with a bad reputation under his prized shiny belt, and you were just the hitman. Take someone out, get paid, stay the night, sometimes earn a fling, sometimes get pressed into a pile. Or a wall. Or a table. Whatever really, whenever eventually. You remember that he had gotten to you too, back then, and you couldn’t do more than scoff under your breath or avert your gaze, lest you get culled right there, and then you remember how quickly things came after that. You’d gotten more comfortable around him, that was your first mistake, and then you let him strip you of your defenses, you let him see your scars, you let him thumb your cracked, torn lips, you let him ask questions. You answered them. You let him get close. You let him kiss you. And you let him get to you.

The two of you were bonded before that night was up and you slept with him on top of you after batting and whacking him for his quips and teases.

Something similar happened, you suddenly remember when your palmhusk vibrates sadly. You need to get another one, you hear your cliche saying, but really, it’ll probably be the only one ever to last a wipe in this place. You’re brought to the time Murrit dragged you to the coast of the Black Depths as he prepared to leave off to his hive out in the middle of fuckall knows where. He dragged you there because he knew you’d have to go to your own hive sooner if he didn’t, the place where your life was in danger foreverways more than it was with him, because even if you bantered and quarrelled and got into fights like one would in a healthy Kismesissitude, Murrit would never hurt you. At first, he put his life ahead of yours, but you think that’s the only thing you can be certain of when you admit that  _ “he’s changed.” _

You remember that night before he left on his cacophony of shitty drones, he backed you into a secluded corner, planting his hands beside your head. This part was as vivid as if it happened just yesterday; he had  _ challenged _ you, you could feel it in the way he moved. The way his smirk tugged at his lips, the way his gills fluttered and his fins dipped, the way he ripped off your bandana and put a thumb to the tear in your lips, hooking it there. Hooking you. You couldn’t see his eyes behind the shutter shades he had adopted then, but if you could, you swore with all your bloodpusher that they would be burning in something as pitch as the ocean that lapped at your ankles. 

You took the bait. Your jaw went slack to nip, and he’s in your space, invading your space, pressing hard against you,  _ challenging you _ , and somewhere between your limbs flailing as you fight to overturn him and him forcing you back- back-  _ go back _ \- your lips lock with his and the kiss was everything but what it was supposed to be. It wasn’t biting, it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t invading like a kismesis would try and tonguefuck you into submission, and it sure as hell wasn’t pitch. Instead, it was soft. Genuine. Slow, gentle. Warm. Your right hand absently drifts up, your eyes widening, and grazes your bottom lip, much like how his sharp teeth did. Where you yearned for him to apply a little pressure, break through your tough skin, a tongue laved away any possible hurt as if your healing couldn’t take care of it, nurturing. Caring. Murrit pulled away shortly after that, breathed, smirked, and then turned away, leaving you staring frozen long after him and his machinery disappears over the dark horizon.

That was two sweeps ago, and as your thumb drifts over the divots in the corner of your mouth, mimicking but not quite mastering the feel of his, you think you’re finally starting to understand what that kiss meant. Starting to, but not for long, because your palmhusk vibrates with more urgency and pebbles are skittering from the walls. You jolt up, eyes slitting as you faze back to reality, and when you hear the cry of your lusus for the third time this morning -god  _ damned _ lizard fuck- you know your time is up.

**Author's Note:**

> i dunno about you but im really craving chicken tendies.


End file.
